


Eater of Hearts

by escritoireazul



Category: Batman (Movies 1989-1997), Batman Forever - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Full Moon, Happy Ending, Light Horror, Murder, Murder Mystery, Nighttime, Party, Serial Killers, Trick or Treat: Extra Treat, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: Breaking News: Gotham Held Hostage by the Eater of HeartsThree more bodies were found this morning near Battery Park. A group of joggers found them just off the main running path. These latest victims have not been identified, nor have the previous three. As the body count grows, Gotham is on edge. Why hasn’t Batman stopped this horror?Police commissioner Jim Gordon will speak at a press conference at noon.





	Eater of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).

Breaking News: Gotham Held Hostage by the Eater of Hearts

Three more bodies were found this morning near Battery Park. A group of joggers found them just off the main running path. These latest victims have not been identified, nor have the previous three. As the body count grows, Gotham is on edge. Why hasn’t Batman stopped this horror?

Police commissioner Jim Gordon will speak at a press conference at noon.

*

The office is dim tonight, the only light from the reading lamp on Chase’s desk. She meant to turn on more lights earlier, meant to be done before the sun set, but she’s bent over her notes and has been for hours. Books are piled haphazardly across her desk, and her notepad is filled with several pages of her neat handwriting.

She straightens, rubbing the back of her neck. It aches, as does the small of her back. She’s sat still for far too long.

Her door is cracked open. Whoever came in last must not have closed it all the way. The latch doesn’t catch quite right sometimes. Darkness fills the sliver of the hallway she can see. Everyone else must be gone already.

Chase stretches, lacing her fingers together and pushing them high overhead. Holds it as the tightness along her spine finally releases.

There comes a faint rustle from outside her door.

She freezes, body locked in place. Lowers her arms slowly. Holds her breath as she listens, hard, for the noise to repeat. There’s nothing, only silence.

Then, farther away, another rustle and a slow scrape.

Her heart pounds. Her lungs burn, and she has to take a breath. Tries to breathe as quiet as possible. Eases open the bottom left desk drawer. She keeps a baton there, covered in matte black leather, heavy enough to dent a skull. It was a gift to herself, ever since that night at Wayne Manor. She has had no call to use it, no need to even retrieve it from her desk before now.

She stands and crosses the room. Her high heeled shoes are under her desk, kicked off several hours ago, and her stockings make only the slightest whisper of noise as she walks. At the door, she hesitates, fingers just shy of the door handle.

Probably it’s nothing, and if it actually is something, haring off into a dark, empty building is the last thing she should do. If she thinks someone is actually there, she should close the door as quietly as possible, lock it, and call Bruce.

Instead, she wraps her hand tight around the door handle and pushes the door open, lifting as she does so it won’t creak.

There’s nothing outside her door, just a long, dark hallway. The building is silent, but Chase’s skin prickles. She is not alone. Somewhere in the darkness, someone lurks. Something. She’s not sure what she expects to find, but she starts down the hallway, each step precise and quiet.

She passes two offices, their doors closed, no light visible underneath. The main hallway continues to the elevator, but a second one branches off to the left. It is darker there, somehow. There should be emergency lights, but they are off. They should never be off.

Chase tightens her grip on the baton and takes a slow, tentative step down that hallway. Holds her breath again as she listens. Catches the slightest hint of someone else breathing.

“Hello?” she calls out. Her voice is too high and it shakes. She hates that it does. Hates that she’s doing this even when she knows better. She is doing exactly the sort of things characters in horror movies should not do, and she is well aware of it and the reasons why. She has felt helpless in the not too distant past. She had to be saved. Her space has been invaded -- perhaps, she reminds herself, only perhaps -- and she will not allow that sanctuary to be breached. She will take back control.

She will get herself killed if she’s not careful. Another noise farther down the dark hallway, and Chase is suddenly, viscerally reminded that there is a serial killer stalking Gotham. She is nowhere near the park, but that is simply where the bodies are left. No one has found the killer’s hunting grounds.

She takes another step. “Show yourself,” she says, and this time her voice is firmer. “The police are on their way.”

That is a lie, but she thinks she’s made it sound true.

Footsteps coming toward her, two slow and then faster. Chase drops all pretense of bravery and stumbles backward. There’s a noise, behind her this time -- the sharp ding of the elevator.

She spins, nearly falls. Strong hands catch her, hold her until she finds her balance again.

Bruce smiles down at her. “Women usually let me say hello before they swoon,” he says.

Chase spins toward the hallway. It is dark, still. Empty. Silent. Bruce follows her gaze, and she can feel the moment his body goes hard, tense.

“I heard someone,” she whispers. He gives a short nod. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

“Go back to your office,” he says and takes two steps forward, putting himself between her and whatever is in the darkness.

She ignores him, of course. Grips the baton in two hands like a baseball bat. Paces forward with him, though she’s careful to keep far enough back she won’t get in his way.

They cover the length of the hallway like that. It is empty. So are the rooms off it. There’s an emergency exit at the end, but the alarm never went off. Of course, the lights are out, so perhaps the alarm is broken, too.

Bruce takes out a flashlight. Exams the door. There are scratches on the metal handle. Chase has never been to the door, though. She does not know if they have always been there, or if they are new.

Together, they walk back to her office. The atmosphere is lighter, now. Chase no longer feels like she’s being watched, not even with Bruce so clearly watching her.

“What brings you all the way up here?” she asks him.

He smiles at her again. His lips are lush, the curve of his jaw sweet. It’s easier to see when he wears the suit, the harsh line of the mask highlighting the softness elsewhere. He’s a dichotomy, this billionaire playboy with his toys and his brilliance and his quest to save Gotham.

“I wanted to see you,” he says, straightforward. She touches his cheek, her fingers light. He’s shaved recently, his skin still smooth.

Without her heels, she’s rather short. Chase raises up on her toes for a kiss.

*

“Thank you, Alfred,” Chase says the next morning when he brings her fresh coffee and rich cream. She stirs it absentmindedly while she reads the paper. The entire front page is given to the serial killer, who struck again the night before. Three more bodies this time, piled together near the lake in the middle of the park. Three days, three bodies each, and a city cowering in fear.

Bruce comes to join her, carrying his own cup of coffee. Dick is nowhere to be seen. Sleeping still, she assumes. He was out when they got home. Doing the things a young man does, Alfred said, things that keep young men out until late.

She takes that to mean not Robin things, then.

Above the newspaper fold are dramatic proclamations. Below the fold, too many paragraphs chastising the Gotham police department in general, Commissioner Gordon specifically, and Batman and Robin. Why has no one stopped this? Where are our heroes? Why do our police solve nothing?

Bruce doesn’t say anything, but Chase recognizes the stillness in him. He’d come to her after patrolling the city, had gone back out once she had fallen asleep. There are dark shadows under his eyes. He’s not sleeping enough.

“They’re stirring mass hysteria,” Chase says and snaps the paper closed, careful to make sure the front page is on the inside this time. Tosses it to the side. “Naming the killer like that.”

“I suspect many people are getting a thrill out of it,” Bruce says, his voice calm.

“The ones who never think they could be next.” She sighs. Drinks more of her coffee. “I think the hearts are the key to it, but I haven’t found anything.” Then she shakes her head. “Anything useful, that is. I’ve found far too much. Pop psychology, most of it. Animal instincts.”

Bruce looks up at her, sharp, eyes narrowed. “Ignore the hearts. What do the pop psychologists say?” he asks.

She frowns at him a moment, then shrugs. “I have my notes in my bag.”

He stands and offers her his arm. It’s a sweet gesture, and silly at the same time. She takes it anyway, and they carry their coffees into the office. He added a second desk for her, and the rug beneath it is thick. She wriggles her bare toes in it as she takes out her notebook and shows him.

It’s impossible to read Bruce’s face. She doesn’t mind, and lets herself enjoy looking at him. At home like this, hair tousled from what little sleep he got, wearing silk pajama pants and a soft, warm sweater, he’s even more beautiful.

He reads through her notes twice before he sets down the notebook. It’s open to the pages about one of the psychologists from the late seventies and his claims that denying the animal inside was the way to destruction. She’d noted it mostly because of the events tied to it and not so much the writing itself.

“There was a monster hoax,” she tells Bruce. “A serial killer and then some woman pretended to be a beast. Blamed all the killings on monsters, not the man they caught. She was a respected member of her community. It was a shame.”

“Mmmm.” Noncommittal, but it also means he’s listening.

“That psychologist was an expert brought in to assist during the investigation,” Chase adds. “Talked about there being an animal inside us all, one that we should not deny. Could not deny.” She tsks. “Typical evolutionary psychology claptrap.”

Bruce has taken off his glasses and has the end of one of the arms at the corner of his mouth. He does that often while he thinks. She doubts he’s aware of it, and thinks it is a cute enough tic that she has not said anything even though it is a tell.

“Maybe,” he says. “There have been some -- anomalies.”

Chase straightens, the sweet warmth of a morning here fading into her curiosity. “What sort of anomalies?” she asks.

“Fur in the bushes near the bodies. It’s not human hair, it’s not from a dog or a cat or a squirrel or a rabbit. It’s not from anything recognizable when it’s tested.”

Chase takes that in. “What else?” she asks.

He watches her for a long, quiet moment. “Scratches,” he says at last. “On the bodies. On their vehicles when found near the park. For the first victim, on her office door.”

A slow chill slides down Chase’s back and gives her goosebumps.

“Like last night.”

“Very like.”

She takes a slow, deep breath. “I think we should look deeper into the story around that case,” she says.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turns up, just a little. “Indeed.”

*

Digging deeper leaves Chase more confused than ever. There are too many stories, too much speculation, too little truth.

Not that it matters. The killer seems to have moved on. Days pass without a murder, then weeks. The headlines turn to other things. Gotham has no lack of strange crimes. The latest is a ring of dancing bears used as a distraction for bank robberies. At first, there are a few articles about how a bear might have mauled people, but those theories fall flat.

At the end of the month, Chase dresses for a fundraiser, taking care with her makeup. Though Gotham often has galas and circuses and grand events, she does not always attend on Bruce’s arm. Sometimes, she does not attend at all. Sometimes, she goes by herself, and meets him there when he can slip in, all signs of Batman tucked away.

Tonight, they attend together. Her eyes are lined, her mascara thick, her dark red lipstick perfect. Her cheeks flush naturally, excitement rushing through her. Bruce is always nice to look at, but when he dresses for an event, he is breathtaking.

He meets her at the mansion’s front door.

“You look lovely,” he says, lifting her hand for a kiss.

“And you are not too shabby yourself,” she returns.

“Are you going to be lovey dovey all night?” Dick asks. He comes down the stairs still messing with his tie. “Because if you are, I’m taking a different vehicle.”

“You are taking none of those to the gala, Master Dick,” Alfred chastises. “Most of Gotham is obtuse, but even they will notice that.”

“I meant one of the bikes, Alfred, of course.” Butter wouldn’t melt in Dick’s mouth.

“Of course.” Alfred’s smile is wry.

“Come here.” Bruce fixes Dick’s tie. “You really should know this by now.”

Dick snorts. “It’ll be off before the night’s over,” he says. “I don’t see why I need to wear one anyway.”

“To fit in,” Bruce says. “To do what we do, to learn what we learn, we must move among people without standing out.”

Another snort, but this one is more like laughter. “Yeah, well, you move among high society, Bruce Old Chap. I’ll stick to the dive bars and pool halls.”

He’s fidgeting with his tie again. Chase thinks he misses Bruce’s fond smile before Bruce turns back to her. Chase doesn’t hide hers, either. Dick can be a grating man, but he’s young, and he’s been through great trauma. She’s rather fond of him herself.

“Come along,” she tells both of them, and gives one of her arms to each. “We’ll tone down the lovey dovey just for you, Dick.”

His cheeks are a little pink, and he is clearly very careful not to look down her cleavage when he takes her arm. He’s a charming one, that man. Not half so much as Bruce, but in his own way, she thinks, in time, he will draw flocks of interested parties.

The car is already waiting in the long driveway. Overhead, the sky is clear but for a few whispy clouds that flit across the moon. It is full, and it casts a bright light that silvers the edges of everything it touches.

She watches a moment, half expecting a bat to flap across it. Not a single one does.

*

The gala is large and bright, jewels glittering, the performers in glaring neon as they dance and spin and swallow fire and blow great rings of smoke that drift up into the sky through the open skylight that spans the length of the ballroom. It is late spring, and the air grows chilly as the night passes.

Chase and Bruce dance after dinner, together and with others. Sip champagne. Watch as Dick flirts, sometimes even successfully. Dance again.

Dinner was simply okay, not nearly the quality she expects at an event of this calibre, but the spread of desserts and cocktails is exquisite. She takes a tiny, perfect truffle from one waiter passing by with a tray and later a strawberry with a fragile twist of chocolate rising from it.

Bruce watches when she brings that to her mouth. Touches the fruit to her lips. Takes a slow bite and savors the sweet fruit and dark bite of the chocolate. She would like to hold one to his mouth. Would like to kiss him after, tasting that flavor combination.

She is thinking of that and of all the other things she would like to do to him when the screaming starts.

The ballroom opens into the gardens in the courtyard in the center of all the museum buildings. People have gathered out there, mostly those with whiskey and cigars and talk of boring financial things. There is a fountain and soft white lights strung in the trees and, now, a bloody body dropped in the very center of it all.

People scatter, screaming, slamming into each other, not caring the harm they cause. Bruce pushes his way closer, and Chase follows in his wake. Dick rushes up to them, coming from farther into the garden.

“I saw something,” he says in a hurry, his voice low. “It climbed the fence to get out.”

They all turn to look at the stone wall rising up on the far side of the garden. Only one side is a wall as a fence and not a part of another building. It is nearly twenty feet tall. There is blood smeared on the stones, but only near the top.

Dick hesitates as he stares at it. Then, with a shake of his head, he spits out the rest. “It was covered in fur. All of it, even its face. I couldn’t see any skin.”

In the distance comes a strange sound that rises and falls. A howl, Chase realizes after a moment, unexpected in the city.

Above them, the moon looks down, no clouds to cover its face.

*

“I don’t believe in werewolves,” Chase tells Bruce later that night, so late it’s closer to dawn.

Batman and Robin have been out all night looking for the killer. They found nothing outside of the museum garden. Chase spent the time researching.

“I don’t either,” he says. “But then, few people would have believed in a man dressing up as a bat.”

“Few people would have believed in a man dressing up as a bat and successfully stopping crime,” she corrects. “People will believe eccentric things more easily.”

He laughs, just a little, and concedes the point.

“I believe in psychology, in psychiatry,” she continues. “In the things we can prove through science.”

Bruce leans against the wall, arms crossed. It’s a sign of how exhausted he must be. “You have a specific belief?” he asks. “Or is this hypothetical.”

“Nothing I tell you is hypothetical,” she says, and adds a lilt to her words. He’s not too tired to catch that, at least. “But yes, this is specific. Clinical lycanthropy.”

“A potential diagnosis.”

She shrugs, slow and languid. “We do not know if there even is a person with a delusion involved. It could be a villain who found a good costume. We’ve certainly had those before.” Better fur than some of the others.

“And if this is no typical villain?” Bruce asks.

“Are there typical villains in Gotham?” She continues before he can speak. “If this is a delusion, I would like to study the person. Diagnoses are rare.”

“Like you do Mr. Nygma,” Bruce says, and his expression twists. Guilt, weighing him down. He carries too much guilt, too much for all the world, much less one man.

“Yes, very like,” she says, then makes her way over to him. Teases him out of his tense stance. Gathers his hands in hers and takes him to bed. They do not talk of villains or delusions or any of the things that haunt Gotham again that night.

*

The next night, Batman and Robin patrol the city. Commissioner Gordon has the police out in force. Bruce requests that Chase remain at the mansion, but she needs the books in her office, the research she’s gathered there. She promises to take one of the cars, to return quickly. Swears that she will be safe. Convinces him to go in search of the vulnerable.

Makes a grave mistake.

Streets are cordoned off in ways that add nearly half an hour to her drive. A storm comes in, threatening rain. People avoid the streets around her office. There are restaurants nearby, a handful of upscale bars, but if they are full, she cannot tell from the outside.

Extra security is in place within the building. She says hello to them as she enters, good-bye as she leaves a short while later, laden down with three bags of books. She parked in a covered garage attached to the building rather than on the street out front to protect the books from any potential water damage. The garage still had people coming and going when she arrived, people tucked away safe in their vehicles.

It is dark when she enters to leave. Empty. Silent.

Her heels click sharp against the concrete, and echo against the low ceilings and thick support beams. Rain started while she was inside, is pouring down now, muffling any noise from Gotham beyond the walls of the garage.

She’s nearly to the car when she hears the scratching, like the scrape of knives across concrete. Like the scrape of claws. Then, closer, the high-pitched noise of sharp tipped things against metal.

Slowly, Chase turns, and before her stands a beast.

It is short, hunched over, and it drags its hand across another car, leaving curls of paint and metal exposed. The sound of it makes her teeth ache. She wants to drop her bags and cover her ears. She wants to drop her bags and run. She wants to drop her bags and go closer, examining it thoroughly.

“Hello, doctor,” it says, voice surprisingly normal for all that she can see fangs mutating the shape of its mouth. “You are very tricky prey.”

She swallows and says nothing.

“Not so tricky now.” When it walks closer, its steps are strange, the way its legs move, a slight bounce to it. She looks it over, forcing her breathing to remain slow, ignoring the way her heart pounds.

It is covered in fur, even its face, but aside from that, it has a human face. That bulge of teeth at its mouth, maybe a slightly longer nose, but nothing shocking. The fur at its face is short, longer on its arms and hands, on what she can see of its legs. Its shirt is torn on one side, revealing heavy fur along its torso, and its pants are jagged at the ends. It wears no shoes, and its feet are not human, are too big and have too few toes, have long claws and fur.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her voice is steady. She doesn’t know how.

“You’re not asking the right question,” it says, and laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that is nothing like its speaking voice.

Chase hesitates. It stalks closer.

“What are you?” she tries, and it freezes.

“Yes,” it says, slurring the sibilance around those teeth. “That is the question. What am I, doctor? Can you tell me?”

It no longer sounds like its teasing or threatening her. There is something sincere in the way it watches her, waiting. She shifts one bag higher over her shoulder, uses that to cover the way she slips her hand into her pocket. She brushes her fingers over the things there, keys, the bracelet Bruce gave her that she caught on her scarf leaving the mansion and tucked away there until she can have him smooth that sharp spot, a slender cylinder.

“We will need to talk first,” she says. “In my office would be more comfortable than here.”

Again, that laugh that is more a growl. “And easier for you to alert the security guards. No, doctor. You are not that clever of prey.”

Chase nods. “Alright then, we can do it here.” She adjusts the bags again, careful to keep her left hand curled to hide what she holds. “Tell me, what do you think you are?”

When it smiles, she can see more of those teeth, too perfectly white, too big, too sharp. “I am a man,” it says, straightening and pushing out its chest, “and a monster.”

“Do you believe you turn into a wolf?” she asks. It’s too blunt, but she’s on edge. This is not how she expected her evening to go. Now, faced with it, she does not know the right way to study it. This is very different than the safety of Arkham’s heavy doors between her and the Riddler.

“Look at me.” It spreads its arms wide.

She takes a small step forward. If it notices, it does nothing. She looks it over, making her perusal obvious. It shifts, turning one side toward her, then the other. Preens, she thinks. Its fur is dark brown, smeared with dust in places. It’s too dark to tell if there’s blood.

“I see a man,” she says at last. “A man caught in a terrible position.”

“It’s not terrible!” His words are a roar. She takes another step closer. He does, too, a much bigger one. It takes all her strength not to drop everything and run. She wouldn’t get far. “I’m powerful! Powerful enough to kill a bat! All I need is the right bait.”

It’s not unexpected, but what happens next happens very quickly. It lunges, and she brings up the pepperspray clutched in her left hand. Her aim is true, and she hits it square in the eyes, soaking its fur. It screams and paws ineffectually at its face.

She brings the heaviest bag into play next, twisting away and then back quickly, letting it swing out so the impact has more strength. The bag slams into the side of its head, staggering it. Another hit, and it goes down to its knees.

The next step is the biggest risk, but she doesn’t dare give it a chance to come back to its sense and regain its feet. She drops the bags and springs forward, grabbing its head, fingers tight in its fur, and slamming it down against her knee.

Finally, it drops and she scrambles back, out of easy reach. Fur sticks to her hands. It smells like wet dog and glue.

A flutter behind her. She jerks, but does not spin. He may have startled her, but she knows that sound. She knew he was coming for her, would be from the moment she triggered the emergency beacon in the bracelet.

Batman makes a wide circle around her, his eyes on the downed beast.

When he looks at her, his jaw is tight, but his eyes soft. “You should go inside where it’s safe, Doctor Meridian. I will deal with him. The police will wish to speak with you, though.”

She smiles. They are alone, but already she can hear the scream of sirens coming for them. Batman has a thin, strong rope in his hands. He will bind the beast. She is cold and shaking as the adrenaline drains out of her.

“That is a very good idea,” she says. “I’ll wait in my car.” His car, really, but out here, in the suit, they keep up the charade.

She sets the bags of books in the passenger seat. Turns the heat on high. Rests her head back against the seat and closes her eyes.

*

Alfred has tea and soup waiting for her when she returns home. She changes quickly into the warmest clothes she can find, then lets the liquid heat her from the inside out. Alfred fusses, but she reassures him that she is fine.

Bruce comes in not too much later. He looks tired, still, but the weight has lifted. He sits next to her, drinks his own tea. Does not have the soup.

“Neither monster nor delusion” she says. It is not a question, but he nods anyway, answering it.

"Science, and obsession."

“Did he swear vengeance on Batman?”

Bruce’s smile is small, but there. “No. Not vengeance. Batman is, it seems, worth a good many points if you wish to prove yourself in the underworld.”

“And the fur?”

“Inspired by the Penguin.”

Chase winces. She’s seen pictures, though she wasn’t around, and can imagine the stench of raw fish everywhere.

“A more successful killer than the Penguin, Master Bruce.” Alfred refreshes their tea. Brings his own cup to join them.

“Yes. It is a shame.”

“He was committed to the cover,” Chase says. “I checked the dates of the previous murders. They were also under the full moon.”

“He called himself the Wolf Man.” Bruce touches the corner of his mouth. “Said it would be memorable.”

“Classic horror movies would agree,” Chase says. “The hearts were both gruesome and unnecessary.” She hesitates as a thought strikes her. “Surely he wasn’t actually eating the hearts, was he?”

“No, and I am grateful for that. He never removed them. Someone leaked to the press that he did. Gordon thinks it might have been the man himself.”

They finish their tea in silence, the three of them, comfortable and warm. When they’re done, Alfred gathers the cups. Chases wishes him good night.

“Come, Bruce,” she says, and presses a kiss to his temple. “You deserve to sleep.”

“There are more out there,” he says, but lets her lead him upstairs.

“There will always be more.” Chases kisses him properly this time, a gentle brush of her mouth against his, a prelude of what will come. “And Batman will always be there to stop them.”

“Dr. Meridian needed no help tonight,” Bruce murmurs into her hair. He kisses her again, her lips, her jaw, the side of her throat. She is no longer cold. Heat floods her, the fans flamed with each new touch of his mouth.

“Not out there,” she says, “but I can think of a few ways you can help in here.”

She can feel his quiet laugh all the way to their bed.


End file.
